I have a little tradition of mine: every country I visit, I like to go for a run.

Of course that 37 degree days with 94% humidity had so far discouraged me, but this particular day this naive blogger thought that if I waited until the sun started setting and hydrated properly one hour before, I would be just fine. So I laced my running shoes, turned on my running playlist and walked off the hotel.
Needless to say, 500 meters after I started I was already sweating from pores I didn't even know I had. Before I made my way to halfway my goal my temperature had risen so much I could feel my brain cook, my heart was racing and fatigue settled in like a unwanted neighbor. I wanted to stop and spit my lungs out, but I was so hot all I wanted was my air con back at my room, so I reckoned that running would bring me there faster.
And so I ran. 6,49 km later I was back at my room, drenched in sweat and dust, red from head to toe. It took me 40 minutes to cool down and manage to jump in the shower.

Later that evening I joined the other volunteers to go out for dinner, like we usually do, and trying to decide where to go one of them asked me:

Sinead: ' So, what do you feel like?'
Vio: 'Dying. I feel like dying.'